A Sociopath and a Madman in a Box
by LugubriousLug
Summary: Sherlock Holmes meets the tenth Doctor soon after his "death". Minor Johnlock later on in the story. This is my first story, so I hope you enjoy it!
1. Re-meetings

It was an unusually sunny noon, and Mycroft had an urgent phone call. _Sherlock Holmes, "Great" Detective Dead_ , read the morning paper. It had happened yesterday, and naturally made the front page today. Mycroft gave something like a closed-mouth grimace as he stared down at the image on the paper, eyebrows knit. He was doing what he could.

"Mister Holmes," said Anthea, his personal assistant, from the opposite side of the dining table, also doing what she could(from her mobile phone of course). "Are you alright?"

Mycroft was a little surprised at the question, but then again, he was working through some _difficult family affairs_. It was natural enough for most people to take a little sympathy. Mycroft gave a curt nod in response to his assistant.

After a few minutes he placed the phone back onto the surface of the table, making sure it was covered the image on the paper of Sherlock Holmes's red splattered head.

"We will be having a visitor later today," he said.

"Who sir?" his assistant asked, mildly interested.

"Sherlock Holmes."

She nodded. Typical on the papers to get it wrong.

"Ah, Mycroft. Delightful to see you," Sherlock remarked sarcastically upon entering the tall door to Mycroft's mansion.

"I would say the same for you, brother dear."

Mycroft studied him. He was thinner, he would give him something to eat as soon as he could. He carried a large duffel bag, one that obviously didn't belong to him. He wore a white t-shirt, which was tattered and dirty, so he'd either gotten into some trouble in the past twenty four hours or he was borrowing it from one of his homeless network. Mycroft sniffed in disapproval, taking in an old, stinking scent, one that could've only been conceived after long months of sleeping out on the London streets. More likely one of the homeless network, but he wouldn't put it past Sherlock's innate ability to attract conflict. The sweat pants and shoes appeared to be in the same condition as the shirt. To hide his face, he had on a gray hoodie, but just in case, there was also a large beanie hanging in front of his eyes.

"What have you been doing in the past twenty four hours?" he asked.

"And why would I tell you?"

"I'm your older brother." Mycroft said this in a vaguely menacing tone.

"How's the diet?" asked Sherlock loudly, causing Anthea to smirk a little from on a nearby armchair(Mycroft had asked her to stay, as he felt he needed back up in dealing with Sherlock). Fortunately, her boss couldn't see her as the chair didn't face the front door.

"Fine," said Mycroft in a rather final tone, as if to say and that's that. "Speaking of food, you need to eat."

"No I don't," said Sherlock, automatically disagreeing with Mycroft. He looked him over. As usual, he couldn't deduce as much about Mycroft as he could other people, as he made a point of keeping his suits immaculately clean. He could tell however, that the diet was not going well, and Mycroft was the slightest bit more agitated than before now that he'd asked about it.

"Yes, you do," stated Mycroft, as if this was an indisputable fact. "My mansion. My rules, brother dear." This was of course, the alternative to saying _I genuinely care about your health as an older brother and wish for you to consume an appropriate amount of food_ , but that would've been humiliating. Caring does nobody any good, even when it is for your own younger brother.

Sherlock gave him a slightly menacing stare, reminiscent of that of a sullen teenager who didn't want to follow his mother's(no, _brother's_ ) orders. Mycroft stared back with equal intensity. The room took on a cold, silent quality.

"Chinese, on the way," said Anthea, merrily breaking the silence. She stood and faced the two Holmeses. "Shall I stay late Mycroft, or do you think you'll be capable of handling Sherlock on your own?"

Mycroft looked at her sideways, annoyed and vaguely put out. "Do not leave."

"I'm still not eating," Sherlock said. He was met with two rather exasperated looking expressions.


	2. The Man With the Box

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as he awoke from a light sleep. It had been rather dark when he'd fallen asleep, though it had only been three hours earlier. He only ever slept lightly, if at all, when he was faced with a particularly puzzling predicament.

"Breakfast?" asked Mycroft, a plate of French toast in his hand. Sherlock gave a sharp shake of the head and walked off in favor of the chair in the nearby sitting room. Breakfast with Mycroft could be tedious, and he had things he needed to think about.

Once he was comfortably seated, Sherlock placed his palms together and raised them so that they rested in front of his lips. He stared straight ahead, at nothing in particular, though with a definite intensity all the same. He ventured to his mind palace then, for there was a problem that he needed desperately to solve.

No, not a problem. A man. There was a man he needed to find.

Without closing his eyes, he arrived in a sort of daydream. Well, not a daydream, for it was much more solid than that. He had arrived in his mind palace. He was no longer sitting now, but standing. He stood in what looked to be an empty auditorium. There were rows and rows of shiny wooden seats in a circle around his empty spot in the middle. He looked around the familiar room, and a faint smile appeared on his face before erasing itself as fast as it came. "Now then," he said.

"What do I know about him? Well, for starters, he's called the Doctor." The word flashed before him as he remembered it. A face also appeared. It was that of a frail old man, who'd talked of a man who "saved him". It had been during a case, and the description the old man gave him fit the man as Sherlock had seen him. "He couldn't have been born with this name, obviously. It's an alias. A title maybe."

An image of John appeared before him. "Medical doctor? Possibly." The image of John disappeared, ready to be replaced by many more, about twenty or so, of a man with brown, messy hair, a long trench coat, and a suit, sometimes blue, sometimes brown. "He's appeared thus far at almost all of my cases in the past three weeks. Are there any discernible patterns?" A calendar appeared at the left hand corner of his vision with red marks on certain dates. He frowned a little. "No."

Sherlock continued on his furious search for information. The man was almost always seen with a blue police box, which Sherlock deduced must not be a police box, as there were hardly any to be seen in London. He resolved that it must belong to the man, that Doctor, as he was seen with it so frequently. He wondered briefly how he managed to bring it with him wherever he went. _It must be very important to him if he goes through all the trouble to have it with him at all times_ , he deduced. The Doctor certainly took an interest in him as he'd seen him at many of his cases in the past three weeks. He could be taking an interest in someone else at Scotland Yard, like Lestrade, but firstly, his attention was always fixed on Sherlock, and secondly, Lestrade was boring.

There were still questions that remained, though. Who was he and why did he take an interest in him? What was the odd blue box? Why-

"Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked. He blinked again. Then once more. He looked up. Standing before him was none other than,

"Mycroft."

"It's late."

Sherlock observed the darkness around him and the apparent absence of Anthea. "I know."

Mycroft sighed, seeing no point in attempting to convince his brother to sleep. "Goodnight, brother dear."

Sherlock said nothing in response. Mycroft turned and strode away.

Once he was sure Mycroft had gone, Sherlock got up. Perhaps he required a break from his constant cogitation.

Reaching into his duffel bag, which was right at the foot of the chair, he pulled out his violin case, which he'd kept in perfect condition, despite it having been inside the dirty bag. He moved a small white cloth slowly across the bow, coating it with rosin while satisfactorily noting that Mycroft hadn't kept up _his_ violin skills. That he could tell due to the amount of dust on Mycroft's violin case, which lay on the mantel piece. His brother had never cared much for violin anyway.

Sherlock started playing a simple melody, which he used as a sort of default piece for when he felt bored. As he continued playing the piece, he grew introspective, first reflecting on his progress with the predicament, then on to the fall the world thought he had taken. His thoughts roamed in that territory as he remembered Moriarty, and the sacrifices they both had made. Inevitably, his thoughts roamed to John, his ever faithful blogger.

Sherlock knit his brows, wondering what sort of an effect his "death" might've had on him. He had seemed devastated when he saw the body. There was always the possibility that he could suffer mentally. He pushed the thought out of his head. No, John was strong. He'd been a soldier, for god's sake. He'd seen a lot of men die. Surely he'd get through this.

A rustling from outside in Mycroft's garden caught his attention. Actually, it sounded more like someone had fallen into the shrubbery than just a little rustling. Sherlock quietly placed his violin into its case, pulling on his coat and scarf, and stepped out of the mansion.

Mycroft's garden wasn't too large. He would not have the energy to maintain it along with his usual mentally taxing work, nor would he have the patience to deal with having other less competent people do it for him. The garden was really more of an embellishment to the already grand mansion. It gave him space to think when he didn't feel the need to go all the way to the Diogenes Club, and a place to walk when he didn't feel like going on his usual route. So he kept it small. Which was good, as it enabled Sherlock to find the thing causing the rustling all the quicker. He had a hunch as to who it might be, but was making no assumptions beforehand.

Sherlock strode relatively quietly toward the sound, which had resumed after a few quiet seconds, conveniently blocking out the sound of his footsteps. He stopped at the offending shrub, about to say "who's there", when a man popped out of it. His hunch had been correct.

"Erm, hallo. Sorry about that. I'm the Doctor," said the man, holding out a hand.


	3. Come With Me

Sherlock stared at the odd man, vaguely stunned. The man he'd spent two weeks looking for, the one who he'd spent days thinking about non-stop, had stumbled right into his path. And out from a bush, no less.

"And you are?" asked the Doctor, his open hand still suspended in the air.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, recovering swiftly. He looked the man over as he shook his hand. He was clever and a traveler, that much Sherlock could tell. The Doctor grinned from ear to ear, as Sherlock was mildly surprised to find.

"That's brilliant. You're brilliant. Big fan. Big, big fan," said the Doctor.

Sherlock paused. "You aren't surprised."

"Should I be?" The Doctor scratched an ear.

"Everyone thinks I'm dead."

"Oh. _Oh_! Right, The Reichenbach Fall. That one was really good! I nearly cried. But you faked your death, didn't you?"

Sherlock paused again, assessing what he should say next. Clearly this man was very clever, though he may not look it. Despite his absence from John's life Sherlock had kept up with his blog. Only so that he could monitor his old colleagues, of course. There _had_ been an entry entitled _The Reichenbach Fall_. So this man must read John's blog. But it obviously had no mention of him faking his death. Unless he'd missed something... Highly unlikely. "Who are you?"

"Just told you, didn't I? The Doctor!"

"That's your name?"

"Yeah. Well, no, but that's a long story."

"I've got enough time."

"You really haven't," said the Doctor, scratching the back of his head.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Sorry?"

"You've followed and observed me for a reason. You even know that I faked my death, and maybe, though I wouldn't bet on it, how I did it. You must want something from me to have taken all the trouble to track me down."

"Oh. Sorry, that's just what I do. I observe. I travel."

"Yes but you've taken a special interest in me. Why?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes!"

"How did you know about my death?"

"Well, I'm very good." The Doctor grinned, and Sherlock felt the slightest bit irritated.

"Show me the blue box," said Sherlock abruptly.

"What?" The Doctor's grin faltered, and it was Sherlock's turn to smile. Though his was more of a smirk.

"You underestimate me, Doctor. I have noticed it, of course."

"And I've got now way out of this?"

"None at all."

The Doctor led Sherlock to his TARDIS, thinking on the current situation. So, for one thing, Sherlock Holmes was here. That meant he wasn't in _his_ world anymore. But hen, he'd known that for a while now. Was that such a bad thing though? The thought of having Sherlock Holmes himself in the TARDIS was an exciting one. The Doctor did love a good mystery.

The Doctor led Sherlock out of the mansion, and as the gates closed, Sherlock smiled faintly. He breathed in the crisp, cool night air. He felt... _free_ , he supposed. The stress of planning his death at Reichenbach and the annoyance and confinidness he felt in Mycroft's residence hadn't given him room to really enjoy himself. Now he felt like he was on another case, independent of all those other dull things in life. He could feel his anticipation rising.

The Doctor led Sherlock a few houses down and around a corner. Mycroft's mansion resided in a private district, made to give the illusion of suburbia to those inside. Upon exiting it, there was a very sudden change of scenery. It was quite late, but the atmosphere was very bright, almost lively. Cars moved by, headlights on, illuminating the many windows and doors and dirty street corners they passed. There was movement everywhere, people speed walked by, a few bikes passed, and one could see a few late night shoppers through the windows of clothing stores.

Sherlock deduced that the Doctor must be quite used to speed walking or running, as he walked quite fast but showed no signs of exhaustion. He maneuvered easily through the waves of people, never needing to stop, as he always found a way about them. That was a trait Sherlock had often observed in pocket thieves. The Doctor might not be a pocket thief, but Sherlock decided that he must have some experience in being on the run.

The Doctor rounded a corner into a dark alleyway, one that wasn't occupied by anyone else. And for good reason. It stank, and there were bits of garbage lying all over the place. At the very end of it, at the darkest part, sat the blue box Sherlock had glimpsed before.

The Doctor walked slowly up to it, placing a palm on the door. "Sorry for leaving you here, old girl. It was only so that no one could find you," he muttered to the box. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

After taking out a silver key, the Doctor inserted it into the door, and opened it up. He held it for Sherlock, who stepped in slowly.

His eyes widened as he took it all in. The machinery was clearly very advanced. However, a more astonishing revelation was,

"It's larger on the inside," Sherlock muttered.

The Doctor had entered without the consulting detective's noticing, and stood at the doorway. "Yeah, a lot of people say that."

Sherlock ran toward the console, inspecting every knob, switch, button, and _thingy_ (a word the Doctor used to describe anything that wasn't a knob, switch, or button). Sherlock rounded the console twice, then abruptly directed his attention to the Doctor. He took a few steps toward him.

"You're not from here. Technology's far too advanced. You're used to running. Clever," Sherlock said, staring straight at the Doctor.

"That is actually _not_ something most people say," said the Doctor, who seemed fascinated. "What do you mean when you say, 'not from here'?"

"I mean, Doctor, that you could be from another planet. Am I right?" asked Sherlock.

"Naturally," smiled the Doctor.

"Fascinating," muttered Sherlock, eyes lighting up. The a small smile formed on his face as he bought his palms together.

"If you really wanna see something fascinating," the Doctor began loudly. He flipped a switch. "Come with me."

"This is your mode of transportation, correct?" Sherlock asked, letting his hands fall to his sides again.

"Correctomundo! It can travel anywhere you like."

"You've already flipped one of those switches, assumably starting it. How can you be so sure I'll accept the offer?"

The Doctor quirked an eyebrow, looking at Sherlock as if the answer should be obvious. "Because you're bored."

Sherlock thought it over. He couldn't just leave. Could he?

"Alright then," Sherlock said, surprising even himself as he joined the Doctor at the console. The Doctor's smile widened.

He pressed a few buttons, pulled a switch, and dramatically activated a thingy. The TARDIS wobbled and shook, as it transported itself to somewhere, wherever they were going. The Doctor hadn't set a definite destination. "Allons-y!" the Doctor shouted. "Might wanna hold on to something, Sherlock."


	4. Light Eyes

The TARDIS was still. Sherlock lifted his hand off the rail he'd been gripping.

"Like to take a look outside?" asked the Doctor.

"Obviously."

"C'mon then." The Doctor ran to the door, and Sherlock followed swiftly.

Grabbing the handle, the Doctor pulled it open, dramatically announcing, "Sherlock Holmes, I give you," he stared at the grassy field before him, the image of peace. There was a small town not too far off, picturesque and quaint. "some random town, apparently." He furrowed his eyebrows. This wasn't exactly the most interesting-looking place to have landed. "Looks like the TARDIS has taken me someplace normal for once."

"You don't know where we are?" asked Sherlock.

"Nah, that's no fun. I like to set the controls to random from time to time."

Maybe it was the thrill of being in a different place, a different time, maybe it was the giddiness one felt at having first traveled in the TARDIS, or maybe it was just the excitement of not being bored for once. Whatever it was, Sherlock felt the same thrill he'd experienced when he and the Doctor first began walking to the TARDIS as he took a few steps forward, so as to stand next to the Doctor. "Works for me," he said rubbing his palms together.

"Good. It'll have to, because I do that a lot. I do a lot of running too. You _need_ to be good at running. Sherlock, do you-" and here the Doctor paused, because when he looked to his right, Sherlock wasn't there. "Sherlock?"

"Keep up, Doctor!" called a voice ahead of him. Sherlock was already walking toward the town.

"Huh," muttered the Doctor. He followed swiftly, shaking his legs of the tall grass that had caught onto his pants.

They entered the town cautiously, but it appeared there was no need for caution. According to the Doctor, they'd most likely landed around the mid-1700s. The market square was bustling with people, almost all of whom had a money bag held firmly in their hand. Some people seemed to know exactly what they were there to buy, striding right over to the wooden stand selling bread, or the one selling fruit. Others perused and meandered, sometimes blocking up the pathways, much to the annoyance of the former group of people. A few of the children stood out of the way of the crowd, gossiping and conversing because they were waiting for their mother to purchase what they came for, or simply for lack of anything more fun to do.

"Market squares!" exclaimed the Doctor, as he walked alongside Sherlock(he made sure not to fall behind this time). "Look at all those people! All that commotion! All that talking and chatting and conversing. There are rumors everywhere, and maybe, Sherlock," he turned his head so as to face the detective. "Maybe we'll find an interesting one."

As it turned out, nothing interesting was found for the rest of the day. Sherlock was getting bored and unfortunately(though some might say thankfully), he didn't have his gun on him.

It was late in the night, and the two men neared the outskirts of the town. Sherlock had convinced the Doctor to take him back to the TARDIS, but then, he'd been contemplating it already.

The Doctor felt rather put out. He would've found it an interesting enough place to explore himself, but Sherlock clearly didn't. The Doctor liked for people who travelled in his TARDIS to be happy, especially if there was the chance they would travel with him even longer than just the one trip. But then, that trip had to be interesting, and Sherlock did not seem interested as of now.

A faraway scream was heard.

The heads of the two snapped toward the direction of the sound. The Doctor looked to Sherlock. "Allons-y?"

Sherlock gave a nod. "Allons-y."

They ran back where they had come, deeper into the town, straight past small wooden cottages and a few people. The scream continued, high and shrill, and unpleasant to the ear. This worked in their favor however, because they were able to follow the it to an area in front of what looked to be one of the wooden cottages, where a body, dead and bloody, lay.

The Doctor walked over to the person who had screamed, a young boy of about nine years old. He attempted to calm him, while Sherlock took note of the alley way that lay conveniently close to the body. There was no noticeable weapon laying around, but the damage couldn't have been done with any bare human hands. He glanced at the noticeable chest wound. It looked fresh, so perhaps...

Sherlock strode into the alley way. He spied the dark outline of a humanoid figure at the end of the it, the only intelligible feature of which were its startlingly light eyes, that reflected the moonlight in the dark. He hurried forward, breaking into a run yet again. The figure didn't move, only stared. It was almost like it wanted him to catch it. Before he could reach it however, it disappeared into a flash of blue light. Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"There you are Sherlock. About time," the Doctor said, beckoning him over to the body. A few more people had gathered around it. Annoying. "Did you find anything in that alley way?"

Sherlock quickly recounted the previous events.

"That blue light was caused by a teleportation device, most likely," said the Doctor, after he had finished.

"So you don't need a TARDIS to teleport?" asked Sherlock.

"No, but you need one to travel in time. Anyway, it might not want to hurt us. It could just be trying to learn. My guess is that it's not that far." Abruptly, the Doctor's tone abruptly changed to one of something like glee, "Anyway! I wanted to see what you made of the body." The Doctor gestured toward it.

Sherlock squatted down, looking closely. He circled the body a few times, and the Doctor looked on. Sherlock's eyes were squinted, searching for any small detail. It was a sight to see him this way, so focused on the task at hand. You could hardly ever see him so focused. It looked as if he had tuned out the rest of the world, or muted them with a little button in his head.

He stood abruptly and after turning toward the Doctor, said, "Stab wound. Deep. The wound was a little rusty around the edges, indicating that the weapon used was made of iron, or contained iron. Based on the depth, it was probably a fairly small weapon, likely a dagger or a knife."

The Doctor nodded. He turned toward the group of people and called, "Has anything like this happened before?"

A murmur ran through the crowd, and a many of the people shook their heads.

"Okay, have any of you noticed anything odd happening, then? Anything at all, anything that seemed even a little out of place?"

The Doctor received the same response. He frowned, disappointed. He turned back to Sherlock.

"Actually," said a small, high voice. "I think I saw something odd."

The Doctor turned around again. "Who said that?"

"Me." It didn't look as if anyone in the crowd had moved their mouths.

"Who?"

"Me," said the voice, the owner of which had managed to push herself out of the crowd. She was a small girl, around five or six. Her light brown hair hung messily out of her white bonnet, the strings of which hung down, flying about wildly as she ran forward. Her light eyes were wide with excitement, and her light blue dress swished around as she moved.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as the Doctor squatted down, so as to be on eye level with the girl. "And what's your name?" he asked.

"Lottie."

"And what have you seen, Lottie?"

"Well, I didn't _see_ anything exactly, but I've noticed things."

"Like what?"

"Sometimes people get these light eyes. But they didn't have them before. Really light. Like yours, Mister." She pointed at Sherlock. "Only lighter." The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "And they act...strange."

"How do you mean?"

"They're too stiff and too happy. And they all act like that! It's as if they're not themselves anymore. I heard them talking once! They said they were going to-"

"Lottie!" a woman called, pushing her way through the crowd. "Lottie!"

The girl ignored her. "Charlotte Judith Andrews!"

She finally turned around. "Yes?"

The woman rushed forward to grab the girl by her hand. She was like an older, tidier, taller version of the small Lottie. Her hair was tied up in a nearly immaculate bun, which was hidden inside her own white bonnet, the strings of which were tied in a neat bow. Her dress was a light lavender color, and her thin lips were pursed into a tight frown on her face as her blue eyes looked on disapprovingly.

"I apologize for her behavior. She's been telling that ridiculous story to everyone she can," she said to the Doctor. "It is very rude to say things like that," she reprimanded Lottie. "Those poor people haven't done anything to you."

"Actually," said the Doctor, standing up. "You'd be surprised at how observant children can be."

"Yes, _Edith_ ," said Lottie. "I'm _helping_."

Edith gave Lottie a stern look. "We'll be going home now, if you don't mind." She said, in a final tone. She grabbed Lottie's hand, pulling her along as she made futile attempts at pulling away.

The Doctor and Sherlock sat in the bedroom of a wooden inn, thinking. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, hands pressed together in front of his lips. The Doctor laid on the top bunk, facing the ceiling as he thought, the occasional shout escaping him when he thought he'd come up with something good. That would be followed by a verbal explanation of what his idea was at lightning speed, until he realized there was a flaw, or until he realized he was rambling. Then, he would trail off onto silence and lay still again. Sherlock took no notice though, because he was in his mind palace.

"You men alright up here?" The innkeeper asked after opening he door. He was a round sort of man, with a bald head, friendly dark eyes, and a wide smile. "Anything I can get you for supper?"

The Doctor shot up, bumping his head and the low, wooden ceiling. "Ow." He pulled up again slowly. "No thanks, were good."

He innkeeper stared at Sherlock. "Your friend okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine. He does that."

"If you say so. Goodnight, Doctor." The Doctor gave the man a nod, and he closed the door. The Doctor lowered his head back onto the pillow.

Sherlock had run into another dead end. He, unlike the Doctor, had no idea of the limits and abilities of these alien races and their gadgets. He had no prior knowledge to base his theories on, hardly any prior knowledge of alien life at all, and it frustrated him. He found himself thinking of John again. He needed a second opinion. He couldn't ask the Doctor though, because he was too clever. Though John's intelligence level was lower than Sherlock's(and he was not modest in this area), his insight could sometimes prove useful. John noticed the more ordinary things, the things that Sherlock was too clever to acknowledge.

"You sure you don't want anything to eat?" came the voice of the innkeeper. It seemed he had re-entered the room.

The Doctor lifted his head. "No, we're good," he said, a little annoyed. He laid back down onto the bed.

Then he shot up, bumping his forehead on the ceiling a second time.

He looked at the innkeeper again. Something wasn't right. The man looked very much the same, only his friendly smile seemed too wide. It was almost threatening, like that of a dog bearing its teeth. The same could be said for the two people beside him, his wife and his tall, gangly son. The Doctor realized with a start that the man's dark brown eyes no longer seemed friendly. None of them did. In fact, their eyes were no longer brown. They were all a light blue, almost white, but grayer than the white surrounding their irises.

"It wasn't you I was asking," said the man.

"Oh. Right," said the Doctor.

He poked his head under the top bunk. "Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't turn his head. "Doctor."

"Run."

 **Author's Note:** Apologies if this was a little weird or underwhelming or anything. Constructive criticism is always welcome. More on the way soon!


End file.
